THE  MALLET'S  MASTERPIECE 


.  OP  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


FOR   THE    ROSE   YOU   GAVE   I    WILL   GIVE    AN    HUNDRED 
ROSES 


TO^SJ! 


;Z: 


THE 


MALLET'S  MASTERPIECE 


BY 
EDWARD  i  PEPLE 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  0.  M.  BUED 


NEW  YORK 
MOFFAT,  YARD  AND  COMPANY 

1908 


' 


ad^ 


COPYRIGHT.  1908, 

BY 
EDWARD    PEPLE 


Att  Bights  Eeserved 


The  author  wishes  to  acknowledge  the  kindness  of  the 
frank  A.  Munsey  Company  for  permission  to  reprint 
this  story. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 
FOR  THE  ROSE  YOU  GAVE  I  WILL  GIVE 

AN  HUNDRED  ROSES          .        .    frontispiece 

FROM  WINTER  TILL  THE  SPRINGTIME 
CAME  HE  CUT  AWAY  HER  PRISON 
BARS  .......  48 

AS  I  STRIKE  NOW!  .....  (JQ 

THE  SOMETHING    FOR  WHICH  I  SOUGHT 

AND  COULD  NOT  FIND  68 


2131939 


THE  MALLET'S  MASTERPIECE 


••'      _ .'-•"*    >i'f_J»'_JI-  '--jilt  '!?»•     ;'_•!.     !»g»     i.^,_n.,»-im       1 1  »p       i^fc     ,,,,      .  .  T,      »'..,'      »-..—. -.^X" 


THE  MALLET'S  MASTERPIECE 


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IN  Melos  it  was,  that  ancient  city 
of  the  Greeks,  perched  like  a  snow- 
cap  on  a  mountain-head,  its  temples 
and  peristyles  a  chiseled  line  of 
white  against  the  sky. 

Prom  the  city's  feet  the  terraced 
slopes  reached  down  to  bathe  in  the 
waters  of  the  ^Egean  Sea-  —  a  sea 
that  stretched  away  to  the  rim  of 
nothingness,  dotted  with  countless 
islands  peeping  above  the  waves, 
specked  with  colored  sails,  or  cut  by 
the  prows  of  triremes  leaping  to  the 
beat  of  an  hundred  oars  ;  and  over 
all  a  mid-day  sun  hung  poised, 
beckoning  to  the  vanguard  of  a 
timid  Spring. 

On  a  hill's  crest  sat  the  house  of 
Philotias,  the  sculptor,  whose  name 

[5] 


.jsffyg; 

^SS^^T"^ 


was  whispered  even  unto  Athens; 
whose  fame,  in  the  gossip  of  nobles 
at  the  baths,  was  linked  with  that 
of  Praxiteles.  A  low-walled  gar- 
den faced  the  south,  where  warm 
winds  lured  his  flowers  forth  and 
fanned  their  fragrance  through  the 
open  halls ;  and  from  here  a  visitor 
might  step  within,  inspect  the  spa- 
cious rooms  adorned  with  chiseled 
works  of  art,  then  pass  beyond  into 
the  bright  brown  street  which  led  to 
the  little  theatre,  and  further  on  to 
the  palace  of  Memmiades,  King  of 
Melos,  on  the  highest  hill  of  all. 

Across  the  sculptor's  central 
hall  ran  a  double  row  of  Corinthian 
columns  supporting  the  roof  with 
their  carven  capitals ;  and  here  four 
heavy  curtains  hung  in  the  form  of 
a  square  enclosure — a  room  within 

[6] 


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a  room  and  guarded  jealously,  for 
in  it  a  secret  lay,  concealed  from 
every  eye  save  that  of  Philotias 
alone.  Above  was  an  opening  in 
the  roof,  admitting  light,  yet  shaded 
by  a  parti-colored  canopy,  beneath 
which  the  sculptor  was  wont  to  toil 
till  the  day  grew  old  and  darkness 
forced  the  mallet  from  his  hand. 

King  Memmiades  had  made  the 
promise  of  a  splendid  prize  to  him 
who  should  carve  a  statue  worthy 
of  holding  the  place  of  honor  in  his 
tiny  marble  theatre  on  the  hill ;  and 
in  Melos  a  score  of  sculptors  vied 
amongst  themselves  for  the  glory  of 
this  wreath  of  fame.  Yet,  till  the 
King  and  his  judges  passed  upon 
the  winning  work,  no  alien  eye 
might  look  upon  it;  therefore  each 
contestant  wrought  in  secret,  striv- 


ing  to  set  his  cunning  handicraft 
above  the  arts  of  other  men. 

Thus,  in  the  home  of  Philotias,  no 
slaves  passed  to  and  fro  to  distract 
the  master's  thought ;  the  halls  were 
silent  save  for  the  echoes  from  the 
distant  street,  and  the  tinnient 
clinking  of  a  chisel  as  it  bit  its  way 
to  fame.  Then  came  a  trespasser. 

Fair  was  she,  this  youthful 
maiden,  with  the  saucy  mien  of  one 
who  fears  not,  knowing  that  the 
gates  of  love  are  ever  open  to  her 
nod.  She  was  clothed  in  a  soft 
white  robe,  its  border  edged  with 
silver,  while  a  jeweled  girdle  caught 
it  at  the  waist.  With  one  small 
hand  she  grasped  her  skirt,  display- 
ing tiny  sandals  which  made  no 
sound  upon  the  tiles,  and  in  the 
other  she  swung  a  full-blown  rose. 

18] 


For  a  moment  she  paused  in 
doubt,  then  tripped  to  the  sculptor's 
curtain  listening  to  the  beat  of  his 
mallet  strokes;  then,  with  merri- 
ment suppressed,  she  tossed  her 
flower  within,  fled,  and  hid  herself 
behind  a  marble  lounging-seat. 

The  sound  of  the  chisel  ceased. 
Philotias  stepped  forth,  a  look  of 
wonder  in  his  boyish  eyes.  His 
short  gray  tunic  was  open  at  the 
throat ;  his  arms  were  bare,  his  dark 
locks  thrust  away  from  his  glisten- 
ing brow.  His  right  hand  held  a 
heavy  wooden  mallet,  and  in  his  left 
he  bore  the  maiden's  rose.  He 
glanced  from  right  to  left,  till  sud- 
denly he  spied  the  fold  of  a  flutter- 
ing robe ;  then  he  smiled  and  began 
to  stare  at  the  opening  in  his  roof. 

"  Zeus ! "  he  cried.     "  Do  flowers 

[9] 


drop  from  out  the  skies?"  At  a 
peal  of  silvery  laughter  he  wheeled 
about,  dropping  his  mallet  to  the 
floor  and  stretching  out  his  hands. 
"Adonia!" 

Again  she  laughed  as  she  came 
toward  him  happily. 

"  And  did  you  think  some  spy 
had  crept  along  the  roof  to  peep 
upon  your  secret  work?" 

"  Aye,"  he  replied,  in  mock  so- 
lemnity, "  a  very  villain — a  spy  so 
dangerous  that  I  would  hold  her 
prisoner  here,  lest  another  claim 
her  in  captivity." 

He  sought  to  prove  his  wish  with 
the  shield  of  one  strong  brown  arm, 
but  she  laughed  and  slipped  from 
the  bold  embrace. 

"Yet  tell  me  in  truth,"  Adonia 
begged,  as  he  once  more  took  her 

[10] 

^  4 


sr 


uii 


hands,  "  what  fancy  came  to  you 
when  my  flower  tumbled  at  your 
feet?  " 

"  That  from  the  finger-tips  of 
Hera  fell  the  petals  of  a  rose;  and 
each  I  kissed,  as  I  kiss  each  finger- 
tip." 

"  Nay,  silver-tongue,"  she  chided, 
while  she  drew  her  hands  from 
beneath  his  lips  and  spoke  in  a 
saddened  tone;  "my  rose  was 
tossed  to  wake  your  memory  of  a 
maid  who  waits  for  three  long  days, 
yet  Philotias  comes  not.  He  sleeps 
— to  dream  of  a  sculptor's  prize — 
and,  dreaming,  forgets  the  maid." 

Her  voice  grew  faint  and  sorrow- 
ful. She  turned  her  head  away, 
and  the  sculptor  sought  to  soothe 
her  mood  by  gentleness  and  the  love 
he  bore. 

[H] 


yr^yrrs^r^^^j^s^^&M^SfJ''  ^'ua^y ^^^rc«p«pg;gptoa^i^ 


"Forget  you?  No,  Adonia,  no! 
In  toil  my  chisel  ever  lisps  your 
name,  and  with  each  mallet  stroke 
I  cut  away  another  moment  from 
the  hours  that  hold  our  lives  apart. 
To-morrow  the  work  is  done — and 
then " 

"  To-morrow !  "  she  sighed,  as  she 
checked  his  speech  with  a  lifted 
hand.  "  To-morrow !  And  yet  / 
came  to-day." 

The  sculptor  smiled. 

"  A  reproach  whose  edge  is  dulled, 
for  it  tells  that  Adonia  thinks  of 
me!" 

"  Not  so ! "  she  pouted,  as  she 
moved  away ;  but  Philotias  laughed 
and  followed  her. 

"  You  came  alone — how  then?  " 

She  turned  upon  him  roguishly: 

"  And  may  the  daughter  of  King 

[12] 


II 


Memmiades    not    journey    as    she 
wills  to — to  greet  a  friend?  " 

"Friend!"  he  cried.  "What? 
Friend?  " 

"  Nay,  lover  then,"  she  answered, 
placing  her  hands  upon  his  shoul- 
ders and  looking  deep  into  his  eyes. 
"Yet  is  the  name  of  friend  not 
sweet  if  one  be  faithful  to  the  name? 
I  thought  to  be  angry,  but  you  steal 
away  my  anger,  too." 

"Wherein  the  thief  hath  wis- 
dom," the  sculptor  laughed.  Again 
she  pouted  and  turned  away,  and 
again  the  sculptor  followed  her,  to 
ask :  "  Your  slaves  and  maidens, 
where  are  they?  " 

"  Yonder,"  she  answered,  point- 
ing to  the  sun-lit  street,  whence 
floated  the  tinkling  chime  of  harps 
and  the  voice  of  a  laughing  flute. 
[13] 


"  I  bade  them  tarry  in  the  shade  of 
the  temple's  wall,  for  my  words  to- 
day are  for  you  alone." 

"Ah!"  he  smiled.  "It  is  so  I 
love  you  best  of  all — alone." 

"  And  yet,"  she  hastened  to  deny, 
"  I  would  not  thus  have  come  to — to 
swell  your  vanity,  save  for  causes 
troublous  and  grave." 

"Oho!  And  the  chief  of 
these ?  " 

"  Is  jealousy." 

The  sculptor's  boyish  merriment 
rang  out  till  the  birds  in  his  garden 
fluttered  from  the  shrubs  and 
winged  their  way  to  safety  beyond 
the  wall. 

"  Jealousy !  "  he  cried.  "  In  the 
name  of  all  the  gods — of  what?  " 

"  Of  this,"  she  answered,  touch- 
ing his  mallet  with  her  sandal's  tip ; 

[14] 


"  and  of  her — your  hidden  mystery 
that  holds  you  worshipper,  by 
night,  by  day." 

Once  more  the  sculptor  smiled, 
as  he  stepped  between  her  and  the 
curtains  which  hid  his  work. 

"  How  know  you  that  it  be  a 
marble  woman,  rather  than  a 
man?  " 

"  How  know  it ! "  she  scoffed. 
"  My  jeweled  belt — my  very  san- 
dals— will  I  wager  on  it.  Aye,  and 
'tis  an  Aphrodite,  too ! " 

"  And  is  Adonia  jealous  of  a 
stone?  "  he  asked.  "  True,  I  have 
wrought  an  Aphrodite;  yet  as  a 
mother,  chaste  and  pure,  who  in 
her  arms  holds  forth  a  babe  in  offer- 
ing to  Mars — a  son ! " 

"  Ah !  "  she  breathed  in  eager- 
ness, forgetting  all  else  save  a 

[15] 


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will  show  it  me?  " 

iSi 

1 

"  Nay,  it  is  forbidden." 
"Tome?  Eventome,Philotias?" 

^ 

pi 

He  nodded  and  led  her  to  the 

1 

marble  lounging-seat,  standing  be- 

1 

side  her  with  her  hand  still  held  in 

I 

his. 

1 

"  Listen,  child  ;  your  father,  the 

tf 

h  , 

King,  makes  offer  of  a  prize,  and 

•  tf:'f 

for  this  I  strive,  as  Vasta  strives  — 

1 

,   Clytus  —  and   many   more,   as  you 

f! 

know  full  well." 

.*  }.,  t,  :« 

p 

The  maiden  looked  up  in  wonder. 

Lr 

1'.  ' 

"  And  I  but  asked  to  see.    What 

harm  may  come  of  a  single  glance 

;•    .-. 

from  a  woman's  eyes?  " 

].  j 

"What    harm?"     he    laughed. 

"  More  mischief  than  the  world  and 

;    '( 
1 

all  therein  may  serve  —  with  Pluto 

i   .[. 

['   'i.' 

for  a  cook." 

[16] 

iiV-'^«                                                                                                                                                                                           mCL±. 

}  fc /- 


She  was  silent  for  a  space,  then 
slowly  turned  her  head  away;  and 
when  he  called  her  name,  she  would 
neither  speak  nor  raise  her  eyes. 

"  Adonia !  "  he  murmured  gently, 
but  no  answer  came.  "  Adonia ! 
Come,  child,  what  troubles  you?" 

"  No  longer  am  I  a  child,"  she 
disavowed ;  "  but  a  woman  whom 
your  coldness  wounds."  She  flung 
out  her  hand  impatiently.  "  Oh,  I 
care  not  what  your  chisel  shapes! 
'Tis  not  a  maiden's  whim  unwar- 
ranted, but  the  fear  of  losing  you. 
This  fame  for  which  you  strive! 
This  wreath  of  foolish  leaves  which 
crowns  your  hope!  Your  work — 
more  dear  than  one  who  yearns  for 
love — and  yearns  in  vain." 

"  And  will  you  never  under- 
stand?" Philotias  questioned  sadly, 
[17] 


gga^jayjHjg^^ 


sinking  beside  her  on  the  marble 
seat  and  looking  into  her  troubled 
eyes.  "  What  rivalry  in  images  of 
stone?  'Tis  not  a  mortal  love,  but 
a  love  of  art — a  passion,  if  you  will 
— but  a  thing  apart  from  love."  He 
sighed,  as  Adonia  shook  her  head. 
"  Nay,  listen,  dear.  Does  the 
mother  adore  her  lord  the  less  be- 
cause of  the  babe  that  sleeps  upon 
her  bosom?  No!  To  the  babe  she 
gives  unselfishness,  a  world  of  ten- 
der care,  her  ceaseless  toil ;  yet  for 
her  lord  she  holds  that  other  love 
growrn  dearer  in  maternity.  And 
thus  have  I  wrought  my  challenge 
for  your  father's  prize — the  wife — 
the  mother — as  my  mortal  heart 
longs  always  for  Adonia,  though 
hand  and  mind  are  given  unto 
images  of  stone." 

[18] 

fr 

I^SiiiSi^iPPIiSP 


l±^±&&^^yL^l^ip 


The  maiden  ceased  to  frown,  and 
raised  her  eyes,  now  glistening  with 
tears. 

"  Forgive,"  she  pleaded.  "  I  un- 
derstand at  last.  My  lips  prove 
traitors  to  every  kindly  thought,  for 
my  heart  is  troubled,  shrinking  be- 
cause of  fear." 

"Fear?"  he  asked,  in  half 
amused  astonishment.  "  Of  what  ?  " 

"  Of  Vasta ! "  she  answered  bit- 
terly, rising  to  her  feet,  her  white 
hands  clenched,  her  fair  cheek  red- 
dening with  a  flush  of  angry  shame. 

The  sculptor  took  a  backward 
step. 

"  What !  My  good  friend  Vasta? 
Surely  not  of  him ! " 

"  No  friend  is  he  of  yours,"  the 
maid  declared ;  and  when  Philotias 
smiled  indulgently,  she  added  with 
[19] 


II 

l|| 

1 

'  ..  V1  •!  -. 

If 

'['     ' 

•  •!'  •' 

'  ••'  \' 

'•' 

1 

fe 

•u 

|{ 

,  t  i- 

v  ' 

;|{ 

''•'  ' 
;:  • 

1  1 

;  , 

III 

'  i  1* 

r 

••  'i|i.' 

a  frown :  u  Ah,  laugh  if  you  will 
but  I  have  marked  his  scowl  at  men- 
tion of  your  name.     His  eyes  grow 
dark,  and  in  them  creeps  a  light  of 
evil,  and  then " 

She  paused,  for  her  lover  checked 
her  with  a  merry  laugh. 

"  Moonshine,  Adonia !  Moonshine 
— nothing  more !  In  youth  he  was 
my  playmate  and  as  brother  of  my 
blood." 

"  Aye,"  agreed  the  maid,  "  but 
rivals  in  all  your  sports,  as  you  are 
rivals  now  in  the  sculptor's  art." 

"  True,"  returned  Philotias,  "  yet 
Vasta  was  ever  honest  in  his 
strength.  What  more  may  a  com- 
rade ask — an  open  heart — an  open 
hand?  And  this  has  he  proven, 
aye,  and  to  my  shame." 

"How?        Tell     me!"     Adonia 

[20] 


begged,  and  for  a  moment  the  sculp- 
tor paced  his  floor  in  thought. 

"  I  recall  a  time  in  Athens,  years 
agone,  when  in  the  Olympic  games 
we  ran  a  race — the  prize  a  purse  of 
gold.  Gods!  what  a  day  it  was — 
and  what  a  race!  Even  now  my 
blood  runs  warm  at  memory  of  it. 
The  sun  a  raging  torch  above — the 
course  an  oven  under  foot — the 
crowds — a  multitude,  whose  cheer- 
ing beat  like  surf  upon  a  shore — 
while  Vasta  and  I  ran  breast  to 
breast  and  knee  to  knee ! "  Phi- 
lotias  paused  to  laugh  aloud.  "  Ah, 
the  glory  of  it! — the  joy — the  pain 
— the  cracking  sinews,  as  we 
panted  for  the  goal !  " 

"  Who  won  ?  "  Adonia  questioned, 
leaning  forward  on  the  marble  seat, 
"Who  won?" 

[21] 


"  Wait !  To  me  came  a  pas- 
sionate desire  for  victory — and  fury 
because  I  might  not  gain  the  lead. 
I  heard  the  cries  of  those  who 
wagered  on  my  heels — a  din  of 
voices — jumbled — shrill!  It  fired 
my  blood!  It  maddened  me!  I 
prayed  to  the  gods,  in  rage,  that 
Vasta  might  trip  and  fall!  From 
him  I  would  win,  though  I  trod 
upon  his  neck;  and  so  we  ended — 
yet  none  might  say  whose  foot  first 
crossed  the  line." 

Again  the  sculptor  paused,  and 
sighed. 

"  And  then ?  "  the  maiden 

asked  in  eagerness.  "  What  then?  " 

"  The  judge  gave  praise  to  each, 
and  would  divide  the  purse  between 
us  equally;  but  Vasta  stepped  be- 
fore him,  breathing  hard  and  fast. 

[22] 


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I 


'  O  noble  judge,'  he  urged,  '  I  pray 
you  give  it  to  Philotias,  for  on  yes- 
terday I  won  a  prize,  where  he,  my 
rival,  lost.' " 

"  The  fox !  "  breathed  Adonia  in 
the  hollow  of  her  hand,  while  Phi- 
lotias, unconscious  of  her  mood, 
went  on : 

"  Think !  What  generosity !  Was 
Vasta's  hand  not  open?  Was  his 
heart  not  warm?  To  me  he  offered 
all,  and  I,  abashed,  could  answer 
nothing,  for  my  soul  was  shamed." 

"  Ah !  "  flashed  the  maid,  with  a 
curling  lip.  "  And  what  said  this 
noble  judge?  " 

Philotias  smiled  and  spread  his 
hands. 

"  '  Vasta/  said  the  judge — and  I 
can  see  him  now  as  he  looked  in 
pride  upon  the  boy — 'Vasta,  in 

[23] 


speed  your  rival  equals  you,  but  in 
unselfish  grace  you  have  out- 
stripped him  far.  The  purse  is 
yours/  " 

Adonia  snapped  her  fingers,  ris- 
ing from  her  seat  in  scorn  that  was 
undisguised. 

"  And  then,  no  doubt "  she  jeered, 
"  dear  Vasta  proffered  you  a  half, 
and  you  refused."  As  the  sculptor 
nodded,  she  laughed  derisively. 
"  And  so  he  blinded  you — both  you 
and  this  foolish  judge — as  he  seeks 
to  blind  you  now  by  treachery  and 
craft." 

"Adonia!" 

"What!"  she  shrilled,  "and 
know  you  not  that  he  would  rob  you 
of  another  of  your  heart's  desires?  " 
As  the  sculptor  stared  in  speechless 
wonderment,  she  struck  her  fist 

[24] 


ill 

KKrlJ 


BOiSS7aLlVU>l£J^^ 

iy|t^|f:  |^i^|ij 


against  her  bosom,  crying  out 
aloud :  "  Of  me !  Of  me !  Adonia 
who  loves  you,  and  who  hates  the 
very  sound  of  Vasta's  evil  name ! " 

"  Come,  come,  enough !  "  her  lover 
chided.  "  Some  ugly  fancy  makes 
your  tongue  unjust — unkind !  " 

"  I  tell  you,  it  is  true !  "  the  maid 
flung  back  in  wrath.  "  Forever  he 
haunts  my  father's  heels,  deceiving 
him  wTith  flatteries." 

"  But  why?  " 

"  Why?  And  are  you  still  so 
blind?  He  steals  my  father's  con- 
fidence— learns  what  sculptured 
work  will  please  him  best — and 
gains  advantage  over  you." 

"And  this  is  all?"  the  smiling 
sculptor  asked. 

"  No,"  she  answered  bitterly, 
"  and  I  wish  it  were.  So  sure  is  he 

[25] 


of  triumph  now  that  he  seeks  to 
wring  a  promise  that  should  he  win 
the  prize,  then  shall  he  win  me  also 
— as  a  wife." 

Once  more  she  sank  upon  the 
marble  seat,  sobbing,  and  hid  her 
face  upon  her  outflung  arms.  For 
a  moment  Philotias  stood  in  trou- 
bled thought — troubled  because  of 
Vasta  who  was  his  friend,  and  be- 
cause of  Adonia's  fear;  then  he 
came  to  her  side  and  asked : 

"  And  in  truth  you  have  heard 
him  speak,  and  heard  the  King 
make  answer  to  his  words?  " 

"  N-no,"  she  began,  in  doubt, 
then  added  quickly  when  he  smiled : 
"  But  I  have  marked  their  whisper- 
ings— their  glances  to  where  I  sat 
apart.  I  feel!  I  know!" 

"  Ah,    you    see? "    he    laughed. 

[26] 


it$! 


&! 


"  More  moonshine,  little  one,  for 
none  shall  part  us  while  I  live. 
And  even  were  it  true,  this  fancied 
fear,  what  matters  it?  Will  I  not 
win,  and,  winning,  gain  a  prize 
more  splendid  still? — for  Adonia 
will  then  be  mine !  " 

The  maiden  sobbed  and  raised  her 
arms  to  him. 

"Win!  Win,  Philotias!"  she 
cried,  "  lest,  losing  you,  my  heart 
shall  love  no  more." 

"  Aye,"  he  answered,  and  took 
her  in  a  close  embrace,  "  aye,  for 
you,  though  a  thousand  enemies  be- 
set our  path."  He  stroked  her  hair 
and  soothed  her  with  a  score  of  arts 
which  lovers  know,  till  at  length 
her  grief  was  spent.  "  Poor  Vasta ! " 
he  whispered,  presently.  "  He  loves 
you,  too.  Yet  is  it  strange?  The 
[27] 


whole  glad  world  should  love 
Adonia.  Come,  we'll  think  of  it  no 
more.  In  my  garden,  for  the  rose 
you  gave,  I  will  give  an  hundred 
roses.  Come." 

He  took  her  hand  and  led  her 
from  the  hall,  along  the  graveled 
paths  whose  borders,  like  a  paint- 
er's palette,  were  splashed  with  the 
colors  of  a  master's  brush.  And 
here,  as  she  filled  her  hands  with 
flowers,  all  fear  of  Vasta  fluttered 
from  Adonia's  heart,  even  as  the 
song-birds  winged  their  flight  across 
the  garden  wall. 


II 


The  slave  who  kept  the  outer  gate 
sat  nodding  in  the  noon-day  heat, 
his  thick  lips  parted,  his  black  chin 

[28] 


'^^i^nj2|f 


resting  on  his  breast;  and  Vasta 
smiled  as  he  passed  this  sorry 
sentinel,  thinking  to  tell  the  master 
of  a  servant's  negligence. 

He  had  come  from  his  perfumed 
bath,  and,  in  passing,  thought  to 
speak  with  his  friend  Philotias,  or 
remain,  perchance,  for  the  mid-day 
meal. 

He  was  clad  in  a  flowing  toga, 
bordered  as  befit  his  rank,  while  a 
rich  blue  cloak  was  flung  across  his 
shoulder,  caught  with  a  jeweled 
clasp.  As  he  strode  unchallenged 
through  the  court,  he  marveled  to 
find  it  now  untenanted,  no  slaves  on 
watch,  no  sound  of  the  chisel  com- 
ing from  beyond  the  curtain's  folds. 

"Philotias!"  he  called.  "Are 
you  here,  old  friend?  " 

No   answer  came,   and   Vasta's 

[29] 


keen  eyes,  moving  restlessly,  fell 
upon  Adonia  and  his  friend  at  the 
garden's  furthest  end.  He  leaned 
against  a  column,  watching,  a  flush 
of  jealous  anger  mounting  to  his 
cheek,  while  he  muttered  slowly, 
bitterly : 

"  In  the  garden — with  her — 
alone!  He  crowns  her  with  a 
flowered  wreath,  and  she  laughs 
into  his  eyes!  And  I  must  watch 
— and  suffer  as  I  watch !  " 

He  scowled  in  sullen  fury,  mur- 
muring again : 

"  She  comes,  no  doubt,  to  view  his 
masterpiece — his  work  which  will 
rival  mine ! " 

Vasta  started  guiltily  at  a 
thought  which  came  to  him ;  yet  the 
sight  of  the  lovers  wandering  hand 
in  hand  banished  his  scruples, 

[30] 


1 


,-t...  -^.  ..^^,  .•,,,.•*  —y-r  yrr  ^^"V  -                                 •»»•"•  .•'.'  ••I".-  •  '•'.-•  • 

trampled   on  his  pride;  then  his 

Ill 
mm 

slim,  white  fingers  crept  toward  his 

•"•«                                      J           •                         T                           •                           •    i                          •   J 

mm 

ff^,-^^if. 

*  •  *  'i*  ^  i 

rival's  curtain,  drawing  it  aside. 

i  »•,'•*•  *  .  »  '» 

He  turned  and  looked  —  looked  long 

l-l; 

si  ; 

In 

and  silently  upon  a  wonder-work  — 

'.  .'. 

a  calm,  proud  mother  and  her  in- 

'..;' 

fant  son.     He  moved  not,  save  that 

| 

$ 

his  hand  was  trembling,  while  his 

4 

cheek  grew  pale  —  as  pale  as  the 

;| 

chiseled  figures  mocking  him.     His 

''.;  • 

fingers  loosed  their  hold.     The  cur- 

1 

tain  fell.     He  sighed  and  turned 

I 

;'l 

1 

1 

'  i 

away. 

,)'  • 

.1  ' 

"  More  beautiful  than  mine  !  "  he 

;| 

breathed,  sadly,  as  one  to  whom  de- 

I' 

•| 

I'l"*  fj 

feat  is  but  a  name  for  weak  despair. 

!  > 

1 

Then  he  clenched  his  fists  in  rage. 

•«    . 

:| 

"  Philotias  will  wrest  the  prize 

i 

fl 

.  t; 

from  me!     By  Pluto,  he  will  win, 

^ 

::,| 

and  winning,  claim  Adonia  for  his 
own  !  " 

[31] 

'    u 

i; 

! 

i 

£?S 

^^^^^^^^^-^^^^ W^JOffBC^BixjSSrnjp 


Long  Vasta  stood  in  troubled 
thought,  his  heart  a  prey  to  jeal- 
ousy and  hate.  At  his  feet  lay  the 
heavy  mallet,  dropped  by  chance, 
and  half  unconsciously  he  pushed  it 
with  his  foot. 

"  More  beautiful  than  mine !  "  he 
murmured  once  again.  "  More 
glorious — more  grand !  A  work  to 
bring  him  triumph — fame!  And 
yet — one  mallet-stroke " 

He  stopped,  to  flush  with  shame ; 
he  fled  as  from  temptation,  and 
flung  himself  upon  a  stool,  where  he 
sat  with  his  hot  face  pressed  within 
his  palms.  Beyond,  in  the  garden, 
Adonia  gathered  flowers,  nor  gave 
a  thought  to  Vasta  and  his  hopeless 
love,  while  Philotias  bent  above  her, 
smiling  happily. 

The  rival  sculptor  rose,  paced  to 

[32] 


and  fro,  battling  with  an  evil 
thought  which  ate  into  his  brain. 
One  mallet-stroke!  A  faint  breeze 
stirred  the  curtains  softly,  and  a 
weapon  lay  beneath  his  hand. 

Once  more  he  looked  to  where  the 
lovers  idled  in  the  sun,  and  his 
heart  was  gnawed  by  bitterness — 
stirred  to  the  very  depths  of  pas- 
sion— hot  with  the  hate  of  an  enemy 
who  was  once  a  friend. 

"  Adonia !  "  he  whispered  hoarse- 
ly. "  For  him  her  smiles — her 
kisses — and  for  me " 

With  an  oath  he  snatched  the 
mallet  up  and  disappeared  behind 
the  curtain's  folds,  whence  came 
the  sound  of  furious  blows  and  the 
crash  of  marble  falling  on  the  tiles. 

Then  Vasta,  pale  and  trembling, 
crept  forth,  replaced  the  implement 

[33] 


fl-llfl 


upon  the  floor,  and  lingered,  listen- 
ing. The  lovers  had  not  heard.  In 
stealth  he  began  to  move  away, 
when  his  cloak  became  unfastened, 
falling  about  his  feet.  He  seized  it 
hastily  and  flung  it  across  his  arm, 
yet  knew  not  that  its  jeweled  clasp 
was  left  behind. 

With  the  tread  of  a  thief  he  stole 
from  out  the  hall,  through  the  court 
beyond,  and  past  the  drowsy  war- 
den at  the  gate ;  thence  through  the 
warm,  brown  streets  of  Melos,  till 
he  came  to  the  cliffs  where  a  cool 
breeze  dried  the  sweat  upon  his 
brow. 


[34] 


^ 


III 

Once  more  the  hall  resounded 
with  the  music  of  a  maiden's  merri- 
ment, for  Adonia  danced  from  out 
the  garden,  a  wreath  of  green  upon 
her  hair,  her  plump  hands  filled 
with  flowers. 

"  And  now,"  she  laughed,  "  the 
little  trespasser  must  run  away, 
for  well  I  know  the  sculptor's 
hands  would  be  as  busy  as  my 
own." 

Philotias  placed  himself  before 
her,  a  glint  of  mischief  in  his  merry 
eye. 

"  Then,  since  your  hands  are 
filled,  which  will  you  lose,  your 
roses  or  a  kiss?  " 

"  Impertinence ! "  She  took  a 
backward  step  and  let  her  flowers 

[35] 


fall.  "  Nay,  my  roses  then,  for 
kisses  come  high  to-day." 

"  What  price? "  he  laughed. 
"  Name  it  and  I  will  pay  a  miser's 
store ! " 

Adonia  cast  down  her  eyes. 

"  It  must  be  a  heavy  one," 
she  murmured  thoughtfully,  then 
raised  her  head  as  a  sparrow  that 
drinks  from  a  fountain's  rim: 
"  And  in  truth  you  will  not 
cheat  me,  but  will  give  the  value 
asked?  " 

"  Aye." 

"  Done !  "  she  cried.  "  One  peep 
at  yonder  mystery." 

"  Trickster ! " 

He  laughed  and  tapped  her  cheek 
with  a  budding  rose,  promising  to 
pay  all  else  but  this,  his  secret, 
guarded  even  from  the  eyes  of  love ; 

[36] 


II 


Jy  J.  ^\f^j:. 


-R^|S; 


11 


yet  Adonia  pouted,  then  strove  to 
tempt  him  by  a  subtler  art. 

"  There  are  other  strugglers  for 
the  prize  who  would  show  me  their 
work  for  half  the  price." 

"No  doubt!" 

"  There  is  Clytus,  who  chisels  a 
bold  Diana  with  her  dog  in  leash. 
Perchance  I  err,  yet  methinks  he 
would  give  me  his  statue  for  a  kiss." 

"  Why  not?  "  the  sculptor  teased, 
"  His  work  was  ever  bad." 

Again  Adonia  pouted,  then 
smiled  and  tried  once  more,  craftily, 
as  woman  will,  seeking  the  weakest 
joints  in  the  armor  of  those  whom 
her  heart  would  shield: 

"  Vasta  fashions  a  mighty  god  of 
war — victorious  from  battle — his 
sword  aloft ! "  She  glanced  toward 
Philotias,  and  sighed :  "  I  fear  'twill 
[37] 


n 


touch  the  warrior  spirit  of  my 
father — overmuch." 

"  Ah ! "  the  sculptor  mused,  and 
set  to  pacing  to  and  fro.  "  A  war 
god !  Dangerous !  Dangerous ! 
True,  mine  is  well-nigh  perfect — 
pure  in  line  and  pose ;  and  yet " — 
he  paused  to  sink  his  voice  into  a 
troubled  whisper — "  and  yet  there 
is  a  something  wanting — a  some- 
thing hidden  from  my  eye — a 
thought  —  elusive  —  wondrous !  — 
and  beyond  my  grasp." 

"  Then  show  it  me,"  said  the 
maiden,  roguishly,  "  and  mayhap  I 
will  tell  you  what  this  something 
is." 

Her  lover  laughed,  and  she  sought 
to  break  the  last  frail  barrier  down. 

"  Come,  dear  one,  I  will  look  but 
once — one  little,  little  peep."  She 

[38] 


^JUg^agg^  ^'U/^%!j^L^.^^ 


pleaded  with  her  arms  about  his 
neck,  while  again  and  again  her 
warm  lips  pressed  his  own.  "  See, 
I  pay !  I  pay !  I  pay !  " 

He  held  her  close,  and  looked  into 
her  upturned  face. 

"  And  who,"  he  cried,  "  could  re- 
fuse such  lips — such  eyes?  By 
Eros,  not  Philotias !  " 

He  led  her  toward  the  swaying 
draperies,  first  charging  her  to 
guard  his  secret  well ;  then  he  stood 
apart  to  watch  lest  a  passing  serv- 
ant see,  and  wag  his  tongue.  The 
maiden  leaned  against  a  fluted  pil- 
lar and  drew  one  curtain's  fold 
aside.  She  looked — in  silence — for 
horror  seized  upon  her  and  held  her 
motionless;  the  while  Philotias, 
dreaming  of  his  triumph,  smiled 
happily,  and  asked : 

[39] 


"Ns* 

T 

%^^M^innini        "'      "•-  '    lf  .  HSSSSS|! 

~*~  f, 

^m'^faff 

3^ 

«  Well,  Adonia?     Is  it,  then,  not 

Ml 

ftpt^vA 

fair    to    look    upon?      Mark    the 

ffl 

< 

1 

dignity  of  the  mother's  face  —  her 
proud   serenity  of  pose  —  the  dra- 

> 

f 

pery,   clinging   to   her   waist,   yet 

ready  at  a  breath  to  fall.     See  how 

•  ji| 

she  holds  her  infant  son  in  tender- 

ill 

ness    and    love  !  "      The    sculptor 

paused    to    laugh    in    very    joy. 

"  A    sturdy    brat,    who    will    one 

div           " 

u*v 

He  stopped,  for  Adonia  turned 

,:  1  . 

.  I 

and  looked  into  his  face,  her  own 

gone  white  in  wide-eyed,  wondering 

4 

fear.     He  started,  trembling  at  a 

•  V  £ 

nameless  dread,  then  slowly,  slowly 

r;  p  i 

he  came  to  her. 

1  * 

"  Adonia  !  "  he  breathed,  seeming 

1 

to  read  the  truth  in  the  mirror  of 

'•'  -I'   ': 

her  eyes,  while  one  hand  stole  to- 

!•• 

K  )-  :'• 

ward  the  curtains,  fearfully. 

:   J 

[40] 

i 

*A*lXJV«J.VtJv**    «-*.«J-fc^' 


S3* 


n-ri;  fjji 


1 


The  maid  cried  out  and  clung  to 
him,  but  she  might  not  stay  him 
now,  for  he  broke  from  her  clasp 
and  thrust  the  draperies  aside. 
Then  he  stood,  in  reeling  unbelief, 
before  the  wreck  of  all  his  hope; 
and,  as  Vasta  had  gazed,  so  gazed 
Philotias,  silent,  stricken  by  de- 
spair. 

At  his  feet  lay  the  sculptured 
babe,  the  mother's  hands  still  hold- 
ing it,  as  if  in  maternal  hunger  for 
her  own.  Her  arms — her  wondrous 
arms — were  gone,  shattered,  flung 
in  fragments  to  the  floor ;  while  the 
weight  of  her  babe,  in  falling,  had 
marred  one  perfect  foot. 

This  the  sculptor  saw — the  ruin 
• — not  the  figure  still  erect  upon  its 
pedestal ;  and  his  brain  grew  dizzy, 
while  the  room  spun  round  and 

[41] 


i^fe 


round.  At  last  his  hold  upon  the 
curtain  loosed.  He  turned  and 
crossed  the  hall,  slowly,  blindly,  as 
one  who  gropes  his  way;  then  he 
sank  upon  a  stool,  staring  before 
him  into  nothingness. 

For  a  moment  Adonia  watched 
him,  rent  with  pity,  then  fell  beside 
him  on  her  knees. 

"  Philotias !  "  she  sobbed.  "  My 
poor  Philotias ! " 

"  A  dream ! . . .  An  ugly  dream !  " 
he  muttered,  numbly,  as  one  half 
roused  from  sleep ;  then  he  wheeled 
upon  her,  crying  out  in  pain :  "  In 
the  name  of  Pluto  strike  me  that  I 
wake!  " 

Adonia  flung  her  arms  about  him, 
striving  to  soothe  him  as  she  might 
have  soothed  a  child ;  yet  he  paid  no 
heed,  nor  seemed  to  feel  the  pres- 

[42] 


sure  of  her  arms,  heedless  even  of 
the  words  she  spoke. 

"  Ah,  dear  love,"  she  sobbed, 
"  and  do  you  then  not  understand? 
— that  while  we  gathered  roses  from 
the  garden  beds,  some  beast  in  the 
shape  of  man — some " 

"  Aye,  but  who? "  he  cried,  ris- 
ing in  fury,  thrusting  her  aside. 
"  What  enemy  have  I  to  do  a 
thing  so  vile?  To  kill  my  heart  and 
let  my  body  live!  To  strike  a  de- 
fenseless stone!  To  dash  the  babe 
from  its  mother's  clasp !  They  were 
mine,  these  two,  the  children  of  my 
brain — my  soul!  'Tis  murder! 
Murder ! " 

He  staggered  and  moved  away, 
casting  himself  upon  the  marble 
seat,  while  Adonia  followed,  sink- 
ing beside  him,  kneeling  at  his  feet. 

[43] 


lift 


"  Ah,  listen,  dear,"  she  pleaded. 
"  Have  you  not  Adonia's  love? 
Where  I  loved  before,  I  will  give 
again  a  thousand-fold  in  pity  for 
the  pain  you  bear.  'Tis  not  a  thing 
to  mourn  as  one  forever  lost. 
Think !  Had  /  been  slain — Adonia, 
whom  you  love — would  that  not 
bring  a  sharper  pang?  " 

He  made  no  answer,  and  a  slum- 
bering fear  awoke  within  her  breast 
— a  fear  for  this  art  to  which  his 
life  was  given,  his  thoughts,  his  very 
soul,  as  he  himself  had  said. 

"  What ! "  she  cried,  "  is  an  idol's 
image  dearer  than  my  own?  An 
effigy  of  frozen  flesh?  "  She  rose 
and  took  a  backward  step,  still  gaz- 
ing on  him,  while  her  bosom  heaved, 
while  her  breath  came  hot  and  fast. 

"  You  do  not  heed !    Ah,  tell 

[44] 


me,  dear  one,  why  you  do  not 
heed?" 

"  The  coward !  "  he  breathed,  in 
smothered  wrath.  "  The  coward !  " 

His  ears  were  deaf  to  her  heart's 
appeal.  He  had  not  heard;  nor 
did  he  raise  his  eyes  to  one  who 
pleaded  for  her  all.  A  low  sob 
broke  in  Adonia's  throat,  as  she 
stumbled  away  and  cast  herself 
upon  a  distant  seat,  trembling, 
weeping  bitterly.  At  the  sound 
her  lover  started,  coming  to  her 
side  and  looking  on  the  girl  in  sad 
surprise. 

"  Come,  little  one,"  he  murmured 
gently ;  "  tears  are  not  for  such  as 
you.  Song — sunlight — laughter — 
love!" 

"  You  love  me  not ! " 

"  Adonia ! "      he      chided,      in 

[45] 


wounded  grief;  but  she  answered 
harshly,  stung  at  last  to  woman's 
unreasoning  rage,  swept  by  the 
flame  of  passion  which  he  himself 
had  lit: 

"  I  tell  you,  you  love  me  not ! 
Your  heart — as  cold  as  the  marble 
block  you  carved — is  given  unto 
images  of  stone !  To  her — that  dull 
and  senseless  thing — whose  bosom 
never  throbbed  to  the  pulse  of  love ! 
— whose  eyes  stare  out  at  nothing- 
ness through  all  eternity ! " 

Philotias  looked  down  in  sorrow 
on  the  angry  maid,  and  spoke: 
"  Cease,  child,  cease !  You  know 
not  what  you  say." 

He  was  silent  for  a  space,  and 
when  he  spoke  again  his  voice  was 
low  and  dreamy,  as  though  his 
words  were  not  for  her,  his  human 

[46] 


— "~ '         .^AVB.VJ^JU  ix.u^a^^Jiv<emkW^/oi^4i>L^^-l^ 

=i.ii--->-'J|i'!-fiVi'f.!-   '..;     "i!   .ii>-i^'.-_.:V.!i   '-.'1.  .::  •.'..•.., ^~>^ 


M^pp-^f 


worshipper,  of  flesh  and  blood,  but 
for  an  idol,  stripped  of  glory,  wrapt 
in  the  stateliness  of  death : 

"  The  block  of  marble  held  a  liv- 
ing thought — the  mother  with  her 
babe — a  prisoner  within  an  uncut 
wall.  She  was  not  a  senseless 
stone!  She  lived — she  breathed — 
she  suffered!  Cramped  in  agony, 
she  strove  to  burst  the  shell  which 
held  her  fast,  and  to  me  she  was 
calling — always  calling — for  re- 
lease !  From  winter  till  the  spring- 
time came  I  cut  away  her  prison 
bars,  slowly,  deftly,  lest  my  chisel 
wound  her  flesh ;  and  she  seemed  to 
speak  her  gratitude  with  sightless 
eyes,  and  urged  me  on.  At  night 
when  I  tossed  upon  my  couch,  I 
could  hear  her  whispering  in  the 
darkness,  sobbing,  pleading  for  her 
[47] 


Ill 


liberty!  And  then  I  would  light 
my  lamp,  creep  to  her  side,  to  work 
— and  work — and  work — till  my 
hands  were  numb  and  my  brain 
grew  dizzy  with  the  pain  of  weari- 
ness. If  I  slept,  she  came  to  haunt 
my  dreams,  pressing  with  her  mar- 
ble hands  upon  my  breast  and  cry- 
ing out  in  misery,  '  You — you  only 
— can  loose  me  from  my  cell! 
Awake !  Awake ! '  " 

He  paused,  and  bowed  his  head 
before  the  desecrated  pedestal ;  and 
Adonia  murmured  to  herself,  as 
sadly  and  as  dreamily  as  he: 

"  And  could  he  give  me  such  a 
love  as  this,  my  heart  would  then 
be  satisfied." 

As  Philotias  stood,  his  sorrowing 
gaze  cast  down,  of  a  sudden  his  eye 
was  caught  by  a  tiny  point  of  light, 

[48] 


FROM    WINTER   TILL    THE    SPRINGTIME    CAME   HE   CUT 
AWAY   HER    PRISON    BARS 


/S-E/Cl^^-VX, 


^K£fM& 

reflected  from  where  a  sunbeam 
fell.  Half  unconsciously  he  strode 
toward  it,  then  paused  while  an- 
other fear  came  creeping  to  his 
brain.  A  jeweled  clasp  it  was, 
which  he  had  given  Vasta  on  a 
feast-day,  not  a  year  gone  by.  How 
came  it  there?  For  many  days  he 
had  not  seen  his  friend,  yet,  per- 
chance, while  in  the  garden  with 
Adonia,  Vasta  had  come — and  then 
— what  then?  He  stooped  for  the 
clasp,  which  seemed  to  burn  his 
fingers  as  with  fire;  then,  sink- 
ing upon  a  stool,  he  idly  turned 
the  bauble  over  and  over  in  his 
palm: 

"  Vasta ! "  he  breathed  in  an- 
guish; then,  relenting,  cried  out 
against  himself :  "  No !  No !  A 
shame  upon  me  for  the  thought! 

[49] 

^ 


ii 


^i$ 


He  would  not — could  not — do  a 
deed  so  merciless !  " 

Adonia,  from  the  marble  seat, 
had  watched  her  lover  silently ;  and 
now  she  watched  him  still,  with  a 
grim,  triumphant  smile,  while  his 
loyalty  was  battling  with  suspicion 
for  the  mastery.  When  at  last 
she  spoke,  her  tone  no  longer 
offered  comfort  to  the  stricken 
man,  but  was  slow  and  cold  and 
hard: 

"  A  friend  has  brought  his 
friendship  home!  The  clasp  is 
his!" 

Philotias  rose  swiftly. 

"  True,"  he  answered ;  "  true — 
and  yet — it  may  have  lain  unseen 
for  many  days  since  last  he  came." 
Adonia  laughed,  but  the  sculptor 
gave  no  heed.  "  What  proof?  An 

[50] 


II 


enemy  may  have  plucked  it  from 
his  cloak,  to  turn  suspicion  from 
himself  and  on  Vasta  fix  the 
blame." 

Again  Adonia  laughed — laughed 
shrilly  and  in  scorn. 

"  And  are  you  then  a  suckling 
babe?"  she  demanded  fiercely. 
"  'Tis  he  who  strives  to  sweep  you 
from  his  path — to  crush  your  hope 
— to  steal  from  you  my  father's 
prize — to  win  by  cunning  where  he 
may  not  win  by  art — aye,  even  as 
he  seeks  my  love  with  evil  passion 
in  his  soul !  " 

"  Cease !  Cease,  in  pity's  name ! " 
the  sculptor  cried;  but  the  wrath- 
stirred  maid  swept  on: 

"  'Twas  he  who  marred  your 
work!  'Twas  he  who  struck,  and 
struck  in  stealthy  treachery !  Yet, 

[51] 


even  while  he  fled,  the  gods  of 
justice  tore  this  bauble  from  his 
cloak  and  flung  it  there !  'Twas  he, 
I  say !  Your  boasted  friend !  Your 
Vasta!" 

She  paused  for  breath,  then 
clutched  her  lover's  arm,  pointing 
between  the  columns  to  the  distant 
street,  where  the  man  himself  was 
seen,  with  his  cloak  upon  his 
arm. 

"  See ! "  she  cried.  "  He  passes 
your  servant  at  the  outer  gate — 
your  servant,  who  sleeps  as  he  slept 
before!  'Tis  he!  'Tis  Vasta!  He 
comes  to  find  his  fallen  clasp! — to 
hide  it — and  be  gone !  Ah,  now  you 
have  the  traitor  in  the  hollow  of 
your  hand ! " 

"  What  mean  you?  " 

"  Put  back  his  clasp  and  watch 

[52] 


£V* 


from  a  hidden  place.  If  again  he 
comes  by  stealth,  then,  verily,  it 
proves  his  guilt." 

"And  if  not?"  the  sculptor 
asked,  still  clinging  to  a  straw  of 
hope.  "  If  not?  " 

Adonia  smiled  in  scorn. 

"  If  not,  I  crave  the  villain's  par- 
don— on  my  knees !  " 

Vasta  was  drawing  nearer  now, 
and  soon  would  reach  the  hall ;  yet 
Philotias  stood,  uncertain,  his  loyal 
spirit  warring  with  the  thought  of 
meeting  craft  with  craft.  To 
Adonia  no  such  scruples  came, 
for  her  one  aim  now  was  to 
snatch  the  mask  from  a  man's  de- 
ceit and  show  him  in  the  nakedness 
of  guilt. 

"  Go — go !  "  she  urged.  "  Go 
you  behind  your  curtains,  and  leave 

[53] 


rjrxfjKW*ve-wfr\?Aw!r&^WAXi!jy*xf- 


a  woman's  wit  to  deal  with  him. 
Go  quickly,  for  he  comes !  " 

She  led  him  to  a  hiding-place  be- 
hind the  draperies,  whence  a  cry  of 
suffering  escaped  his  lips,  as  again 
the  mutilation  met  his  eyes;  yet 
Adonia  gave  no  heed.  Swiftly  she 
replaced  the  clasp,  not  where  Phi- 
lotias  had  found  it,  but  in  the  cen- 
ter of  the  hall;  then  she  gathered 
up  her  roses,  fled  to  a  seat  in  the 
garden  just  beyond,  and  began  to 
weave  a  garland,  humming  the 
while  a  happy  song.  Happy  it  was, 
and  saucy  with  a  reckless  lilt,  as 
though  the  world  were  filled  with 
joy  alone,  and  the  road  to  love  ran 
smooth  and  fair — as  fair  as  the 
rosebuds  in  her  nimble  hands. 


[54] 


IV 

Vasta  came  slinking  through  the 
courtway  with  a  noiseless  tread, 
with  restless,  searching  eyes.  Mark- 
ing Adonia,  whose  back  was  turned 
to  him,  he  wondered  that  Philotias 
was  not  beside  her,  while  he  crept 
from  point  to  point,  watchful,  lis- 
tening, poised  for  instant  flight. 

Adonia  still  sang  on  as  she 
twined  her  flowers,  and  eagerly  the 
seeker  scanned  the  floor  for  his 
missing  clasp,  spied  it  at  last,  and 
advanced  with  cautious  footfalls  on 
the  tiles.  Trembling,  he  paused, 
then  took  another  step,  another, 
stooped  and  reached  forth  his 
hand ;  then  gasped  with  pain  to  feel 
an  iron  grip  upon  his  neck. 

Upright  he  sprang,  wheeling,  to 

[55] 


FlSl 


yiTUiurayyro^^va^ia^^^ 

^  ..»«»>,<.» 

'•'••".  '  -  • 

\Y-r-'  "i^r  '  ',*  .^  i  •  .  '  '".     "  ::t  'i  "'.  "*~     rt  i  ~  '•'  jT/  \.  •;  '\  'e.~-  -1'''  ''•'-  !'"  •  '''"    ^"Sl-'i"*'  ""r*"  *  i'  n  AUBi  '.  ntf1^ 

"•  •!  .V-^'  r-;;>:";  '•-••'••  .                                                "•'^''•'j'x'^  -.• 

**^*^^^s*$F*^                                                "^^j&fe. 
face  Philotias,  while  Adonia  cast 

m 

m 

cffre 

|:_'^;V;S 

i      •  ]    ; 
i   ,  i,'.' 

ii|!: 

~^f 

1' 

i 

i 

m 

the  roses  from  her  lap,  and  laughed. 

i  '.'  < 

$ 

W 

]••  ,.•  >• 

For  a  moment  no  one  spoke,  till  the 
sculptor  broke  the  silence,  demand- 
ing sternly  : 
"  Your    clasp  !     How    came    it 
here?  " 
Vasta  faltered,  beating  his  brain 

i" 

.:• 

'  ;'  '.   ' 

;j 

1 
1 

t-':- 

•      •    :. 
i  ;  k' 

•      C   '                                                                           70                                               j  - 

for  some  fair  excuse. 
"  My  clasp?     Four  days  ago  I 
lost  it,  and  remembering  that  I  was 

'        t  ^                                                                                                                                    fcj  ••'   ''•    j      '   I 

"  Stop  !  "  came  the  sharp  com- 
mand.    "  If  this  be  true,  then  why 
does  a  friend  come  creeping  through 
my  house  as  a  thief  prowls  silently 
by  night?  " 
Vasta  wet  his  thin,  dry  lips,  while 
a  chilly  moisture  oozed  out  upon 
his  brow.     Once,  twice,  he  strove  to 
speak,  then  faltered,  weakly  : 

[56] 

IISS^                                    -4^55  -^t-^\ 

S¥^M>                           w 

"  I—  I  feared  to  disturb  you  at 
your  work.    Methought  I  heard  the 

?£$»• 

I 

r 

chisel's  sound,  and  " 
"Liar!" 
Once  more  came  silence.    Vainly 
Vasta  tried  to  look  into  the  sculp- 
!       tor's  eyes,  and  his  own,  abashed, 
sank  slowly  down. 
"What  need  of  a  chisel  now?" 
Philotias    asked.      "  What    need, 
when  my  work  is  wrecked?  " 
"  Wrorlrrrl           9  " 

*£1 
fl 

;|| 

'.  :];••' 
•M  f 

^i 

i 
1 

t 

"  Aye,  and  with  that  —  my  mallet 
—  in  a  coward's  hand  !  " 
He   pointed    to    the    implement 
upon    the    floor,    while   Vasta   re- 
treated slowly  from  his  wrathful 
friend. 
"  But  it  was  not  I,"  he  protested 
wildly.     "  As  Zeus  hears  my  oath, 
it  was  not  I  !  " 
[57] 

:-   .  rf: 

*•  •'• 

"!  it'.T 

']•   .'  v 

i 

*; 

\t 

^.r-v.::£Vfr                                                          gjZL 

E^%| 

"/'"•/' 

"  And  who  accused? "  Adonia 
asked,  in  sharp,  triumphant  scorn. 

"  'Twas  he,"  whined  Vasta.  "  He 
— Philotias !  With  his  lips  he  calls 
me  coward — liar!  With  eyes  of 
anger  he  accuses  me ! "  Adonia 
answered  nothing,  and  the  man, 
emboldened,  assumed  a  mien  of 
wounded  innocence.  "  Philotias 
does  me  wrong,"  he  declared  in  his 
smoothest  tone;  "and  yet  I  for- 
give him  because  of  the  grief  he 
bears." 

The  maiden  tossed  her  head  im- 
patiently and  in  contempt. 

"  Vasta  forgives !  "  she  mocked. 
"  May  heaven  gaze  in  wonder  on 
this  most  virtuous  of  men !  " 

Philotias  eyed  his  boyhood's 
friend  in  pity,  harder  far  to  bear 
than  the  lash  of  Adonia's  tongue, 

[58] 


till  Vasta  shrank  before  him,  plead- 
ing brokenly: 

"  Philotias !  I  have  done  no  hurt 
to  you.  In  truth  I  am  innocent. 
Why  do  you  look  upon  me  so?  " 

"  Because  I  know !  "  the  sculptor 
answered  harshly.  "  Because  I 
read  in  a  craven's  face  his  ter- 
ror of  one  who  trusted  him.  Con- 
fess!" 

"No!    No!    I  swear !» 

"  Confess! » 

His  grip  was  on  Vasta's  throat. 
He  forced  him  to  his  knees,  and 
backward  across  the  wooden  stool, 
while  Adonia,  watching,  panted  in 
her  joy. 

"  Confess! " 

"  Loose  me !  "  the  traitor  gasped. 
"  In  pity  loose  me !  It  was  I !  " 

With  a  snarl  the  sculptor  thrust 

[59] 


SEP 


2ii$, 


the    fellow    from    him,    standing 
above  him,  quivering  in  his  rage. 

"  Forgive,  Philotias !  "  begged 
Vasta,  crawling  to  his  knees.  "  I 
knew  not  what  I  did.  No  thought  #j.  ,jj;j 
of  wrong  had  I  in  coming;  but 
when  I  looked  upon  your  work  and 
knew  that  you  would  win " 

"  Ah,  then  you  struck ! "  the 
sculptor  cried,  as  he  stooped  for  the 
mallet  and  gripped  it  in  his  hard, 
brown  fist. 

"  No,  no,  not  then ! "  the  man 
protested.  "  I  swear  not  then ! 
But  I  saw  you  in  the  garden — with 
her — Adonia — whom  I  love.  To 
you  she  raised  her  arms — her  eyes ; 
and  you  crowned  her  with  a  wreath. 
Ah,  pity,  for  I  was  mad  with  pain 
— the  jealous  fires  of  hell  that  drove 
me!  Your  mallet  was  there!  It 

[60] 


i  I 


.45   /   STRIKE   .YOU' 


avAi^A^wiajJiu^  uj ._,^&fl.\j^v*iu*rRj>M«ji  'xuxut  yii.ay 

,    ..,.i    in,  ^.ji  _.,;._.^,.  _....!„.  M»  •»..•     in    .».  '.j.   n'.'»'  •-. .  .n. "  »iV..M.  ..r.   i.'-r  ....    .-~jr 


111 


tempted  me!  Broke  down  my 
courage — honor  if  you  will — and  in 
blind  despair  I  struck !  " 

"  As  I  strike  now!  " 

Again  Philotias  seized  the  wretch 
and  swung  the  mallet  above  his 
head,  holding  it  poised  an  instant, 
while  Adonia  cried  out  and  hid  her 
face  in  fear. 

"  Mercy ! "  screamed  Vasta. 
"  Mercy — in  your  mother's  name ! " 

Then  the  mallet  fell ;  but  not  on 
him  who  merited  the  blow.  Slowly 
it  sank  to  the  sculptor's  side,  till 
at  last  he  dropped  it  to  the  floor. 

"  Mercy  for  you?  'Twere  well  I 
rid  the  world  of  such  a  man;  and 

yet "  He  paused  to  whisper, 

slowly,  sadly :  "  And  yet  I  cannot 
kill  a  memory.  The  boy  who  rode 
upon  my  father's  knee — the  youth 

[61] 


%•!•* 


who  shared  my  mother's  love  and 
mine.  Go,  Vasta,  go;  not  only 
from  my  house,  but  far  from  Melos, 
where  my  eyes  may  nevermore  be 
wounded  by  the  sight  of  you !  You, 
who  were  my  trusted  friend !  You, 
who  have  sunk  to  this !  O  Zeus !  " 
he  cried,  while  tears  of  sorrow 
rolled  unheeded  down  his  cheek. 
"O  Zeus,  the  pity  of  it!" 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  moved 
to  where  Adonia  had  risen  from 
her  seat;  he  took  her  hand  in  his, 
stroking  it  tenderly,  then  raised  it 
to  his  lips.  Vasta  rose,  pale  and 
trembling,  from  his  knees,  to  linger 
an  instant  ere  he  left  the  hall. 

"  Forgive,  Philotias !  Your  mercy 
shames  me,  even  more  than  the 
fear  of  death.  Forgive  me — and 
forget!" 

[62] 

•••(•••••^•••^•••••••••••••••••iMrHMaBMnMMpMM 


ZMstW 


Philotias  turned,  in  his  eyes  a 
look  of  grief  unutterable. 

"Forgive  you?  No!  Forget?  I 
could  not  if  I  would."  He  pointed 
to  the  swaying  curtains  which  hid 
the  ruin  of  his  hope.  "  Was  it  not 
enough  to  mutilate  nay  idol  there, 
but  that  you  should  seek  to  rob  me 
of  this  idol,  too? "  He  placed  a 
protecting  arm  about  Adonia, 
smoothing  the  locks  upon  her  tem- 
ples with  a  gentle  hand;  then  he 
wheeled  on  Vasta  in  a  tempest-gust 
of  rage :  "  What !  Would  you  drag 
her  to  your  arms — to  stifle  purity, 
and  call  it  love?  A  shrinking  maid 
who  hates  you — loathes  you !  Go ! 
Out  of  my  sight,  lest  fury  tempt  me 
and  I  spare  no  more !  " 

Vasta,  retreating,  looked  in  ter- 
ror on  his  foe;  yet  ere  he  could  es- 

[63] 


r=~ 


cape,  Philotias,  springing  forward, 
gripped  his  arm. 

"  No,  wait !  Once  more  shall  you 
look  upon  your  evil  work — to  brand 
it  on  your  memory — to  keep  it 
while  you  live !  " 

With  a  sweep  of  his  arm  he  tore 
the  curtains  down,  revealing  the 
broken  statue  and  the  fragments  at 
her  feet.  Then  he  spoke  in  passion, 
his  deep  tones  rolling  through  the 
hall  till  they  woke  the  drowsy 
sentinel  at  the  outer  gate: 

"  See,  Vasta,  what  a  madness  you 
have  wrought !  The  babe  that  was 
beaten  from  its  mother's  clasp! 
The  mother — rapt  in  the  glory  of 
a  new-born  son !  Look !  Look  into 
her  eyes  that  may  not  weep  her 
grief  as  I  weep  mine!  And  you 
have  done  this  thing — you — the 
[64] 


outcast  whom  the  gods  of  honor 
spit  upon !  Out  on  you,  Vasta,  of 
a  devil  born ! "  He  turned  to  the 
sculptured  wreck,  in  anguish  and 
in  tears :  "  Behold  your  work — a 
splendor  now  made  hideous — a 
flower  stripped  of  leaves — a  with- 
ered stalk — a  shat " 

He  stopped — stopped  in  the  very 
middle  of  his  word,  while  through 
him  shot  a  thrill  of  wondering  awe. 
Silent  he  stood,  his  wide  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  marble,  while  one  by  one 
the  moments  slid  away.  Was  this 
the  same?  This  carven  miracle — 
fairer  than  mortal  sculptor  dared 
to  dream?  What  recked  it  that 
her  babe  was  gone,  her  white  arms 
dashed  to  earth?  She  stood  upon 
her  pedestal — a  broken  stone — dis- 
membered— yet  far  more  perfect 

[65] 


still  in  her  matchless,  grand  sim- 
plicity. 

As  the  sculptor  saw,  so  Vasta  also 
saw  and  understood,  knowing  that 
his  deed  had  come  to  naught,  know- 
ing that  his  evil  had  recoiled  upon 
himself  alone;  while  Philotias,  still 
motionless,  spoke  at  last,  in  a 
hushed,  hoarse  whisper  touched 
with  reverence : 

"  More  beautiful  than  before ! 
More  beautiful !  The  something  for 
which  I  sought  and  could  not 
find!" 

Of  a  sudden  he  turned  upon  his 
rival,  his  voice  a  trumpet-note  of 
triumph  and  of  joy : 

"  Go  forth  and  match  your 
chiseled  god  of  war  against  this 
broken  stone!  This  splintered 
wreck!  This  mallet's  masterpiece! 

[66] 


nVJ»^  S&P 


The  prize?  'Twill  laugh  at  prizes, 
winning  where  before  it  might  have 
lost !  And  you  have  done  this  thing 
in  treachery  and  evil  love!  You, 
Vasta!  You!  Go  tell  it  if  you 
dare !  Go  shout  it  from  the  house- 
top for  the  world  to  hear !  Before 
'twas  the  work  of  man,  the  toil  of 
months,  the  thought  of  years;  but 
now  'tis  a  thing  divine — to  stand 
when  the  name  of  Vasta  is  but  a 
whisper  down  the  wind — to  live 
.  .  .  till  the  very  stars  shall  die ! " 
He  ceased,  and  Adonia  went  to 
him,  to  his  open  arms,  where  she 
rested,  sobbing  out  her  happiness. 
Then  Vasta  crept  in  shame  away,  to 
hide  dishonor  with  a  silent  tongue. 


[67] 


S8S 

lUi 

\;il:lf§|i 

The  sculptor's  prophecy  proved 
true.  When  King  Memmiades  and 
his  judges  passed  upon  the  statues 
set  before  them,  with  one  accord 
they  chose  the  Mallet's  Master- 
piece, and  placed  it  in  the  entrance 
of  their  marble  theater  on  the  hill ; 
and  for  a  space  Philotias  wore  his 
wreath  of  fame,  with  a  still  more 
precious  wreath  of  Adonia's  love. 

In  after  days,  when  the  glory  of 
Melos  was  but  a  thing  of  dreams, 
the  sons  of  another  race  came  forth 
to  dig  for  treasures  of  the  past. 
They  found  a  broken  statue  buried 
there,  and,  marveling,  they  bore  it 
unto  distant  lands. 

And  now  from  out  the  wondering 
world  came  all  who  wrought  in 

[68] 


THE   SOMETHING   FOR    WHICH    I   SOUGHT    AND   COULD   NOT 
FIND 


marble  and  in  stone,  each  striving 
by  his  art  to  replace  the  figure's 
missing  arms ;  but  lo,  their  cunning 
failed,  for  the  hand  of  no  man 
might  undo  the  miracle  of  Vasta's 
mallet-stroke.  So,  marveling  still, 
they  ceased  to  mend  a  masterpiece. 
Then,  borrowing  from  the  city's 
name,  they  called  it  the  Venus  de 
Milo,  and  set  it  in  the  highest  tem- 
ple of  their  arts. 

As  once  it  stood  in  the  sculptor's 
hall,  so  now  it  stands  to-day,  as 
woman's  rival — a  dull  and  sense- 
less thing  whose  bosom  never 
throbbed  to  the  pulse  of  love — 
whose  eyes  stare  out  at  nothingness 
through  all  eternity. 

A  broken  stone!  Yet  a  perfect 
work,  in  a  place  of  honor — to  live 
till  the  very  stars  shall  die. 

[69] 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000110488     4 


